I’ve been homesick for countries I’ve never been, and longed to be where I couldn’t be.
I can’t write without a reader. It’s precisely like a kiss – you can’t do it alone.
It was still mild when they walked home from the party, and Irene looked up at the spring stars. “How far that little candle throws its beams,” she exclaimed. “So shines a good dead in a naughty world.
She perceived vaguely the pitiful corruption of the adult world; how cruel and frail it was, like a worn piece of burlap, patched with stupidities and mistakes, useless and ugly, and yet they never saw its worthlessness.
The landings were dirty and the walls were bare. This stairway brought me into the balcony, and I sat there in the dark, thinking that nothing now was going to save me, that no pretty girl with new shoes was going to cross my path in time.
These napkins are more holy than righteous,” Mrs. Wapshot said, and most of her conversation at table was made up of just such chestnuts, saws and hoary puns.
Trace listened to the story, but how could he get excited? Francis had no powers that would let him re-create a brush with death – particularly in the atmosphere of a commuting train, journeying through a sunny countryside where already, in the slum gardens, there were signs of harvest.